Nobody Likes Artificial Sweetener Anyway
by Tobirion
Summary: Dean's been seeing the same guy around a lot lately. He wouldn't mind, except he keeps taking the last packet of sugar from the lounge, and you're deluded if you think Dean would drink his coffee black.


_This lil' thing was written as part of a Secret Santa exchange for a friend, Jeanesis, who digs Gabriel and also digs Dean, so. Gabe/Dean, ahoy! Please enjoy._

* * *

"Look sharp!"

Dean Winchester threw himself flat on the floor of the elevator as soon as the words processed his brain, covering his head with his arms.

There wasn't an explosion of rock salt or the sound of a beer bottle shattering on the wall of the elevator by his head; instead there was a whole lotta _nothing _and he peeked open his eyes, seeing nothing but a few pairs of shoes.

Oh, shit.

"Oh, shit," Dean muttered, face flaming. He stood and smoothed down his suit, hesitantly meeting the eyes of the three other people in the elevator, including the guy who had just joined. The first two, a man and a woman that looked like they were the kind of stiffs from Research avoided his gaze and the woman jabbed quickly at the button for her floor so the doors would close and get them on their way.

The third guy, though, looked Dean's wrinkled person up and down and let out a low whistle. "Touchy, aren't ya?"

Dean grunted, adjusting his briefcase. "What's it to you?"

"I was just curious."

Dean said nothing, head down. He'd deck the guy but he couldn't fight at work over something like this, his own fault, embarrassingly enough—and he didn't know who the guy was. He wasn't wearing the yellow polo from Tech Support but you never knew, he could be somebody's boss in a suit like that.

"You've got good reflexes," the man noted after ten seconds of an elevator ride that was intensely uncomfortable for everyone involved, save for him, apparently.

"Thanks," Dean said tightly, fist clenching at his side. His eyes darted to the dude's face.

He looked familiar, like he had the kind of face you pass every day in the hall and don't fully recognize. He didn't ponder it though and filed the whole incident away in his mental _Don't ever think about this again, not unless your therapist has you hypnotized with one of those swinging pocketwatches _folder.

They got off on the same floor, to Dean's immense displeasure. The halls were full of the early-morning crowd rushing every which way and calling out pleasantries to each other. Dean exited the elevator hastily, pushing ahead of Mr. _Look Sharp_, and seriously? Why was he saying that in the first place? Alerting the people in the elevator of his presence?

'Look sharp!' wasn't exactly far away from 'Look out!' or 'Look, _sharp_' and Dean felt entirely justified in his knee-jerk reaction to duck and get the hell out of danger's way. It was what he and Sammy had always done; you just adjusted to that sort of thing with a dad like theirs. Chuck, his therapist, said all sorts of complicated things about it that Dean was, frankly, sick of hearing.

The promise of coffee distracted him sufficiently from those thoughts and he eagerly trotted down the hallway, bag swinging at his side. The employee lounge for Marketing, Sales, and HR was on this floor—other departments had different employee lounges. He'd heard stories about the one in the basement where the techies lived, and he was glad that he had this one.

Dean poured himself a cup of coffee using the fancy machine that took those tiny cups; he was planning to buy one for Sam soon, as the kid drank enough coffee to support Folger's all on his own. If he got to enjoy the thing at the same time that was just all the better, right?

He cupped his fingers around the warm porcelain of the mug and blew gently on it as someone tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey, Benny," he greeted with a grin. They started talking about the game the night previous and Dean managed to extract himself and wander over to the counter, awkwardly waiting a few seconds for Mr. Elevator Guy to finish up and move away. He set his cup down, hummed a bit to himself as he poured in some nonfat milk from the fridge, and stuck a stirrer in his mouth, nibbling on the end as he grabbed for a packet of sugar.

His fingers bumped against the bottom of the tiny plastic container in which the sugar was housed. Dean peered at it—yup, no sugar.

"Huh?" he mumbled around the stirrer, looking around. The lounge was almost deserted, just Benny waiting for him by the door and Becky chatting with some woman from HR by the tiny couch. Everyone else had left.

"Whaaaat?" Dean said loudly, spitting out the stirrer in shock. "Dude, there's no sugar!"

"Stop being a drama queen," Benny drawled from the doorway. "Just use that shit in the pink packet and let's go."

"I hate that stuff," Dean pouted—yes, _pouted_, because coffee without sugar? _Bad_. He wasn't a fan of those girly drinks that were cream on sugar on cream on fat that Sam enjoyed so much from the coffee chain up the street; he was basic. A little milk, a little sugar, and everything was peachy.

He scowled and dumped in two packets of the imitation sugar, and you know what?

It sucked.

* * *

Dean passed Mr. Elevator Guy from yesterday in the lobby the next morning and thereby dubbed him 'Mr. Lobby Guy' for that day in his mind. Mr. Lobby Guy was talking to the two female front-desk workers. It was irritating, for some reason, and Dean sneered at him as he walked by and into the elevator.

Luckily everything went by without incident. Nothing happened that made Dean even remotely twitchy or need to do his breathing exercises and he reached the staffroom in one piece.

"Dean," Becky called from the corner before he could reach the coffee machine, "C'mere for a sec!"

He unwillingly joined her and was subjected to questions about her hot gay sex novel. One of the characters was based off him apparently—_he's a sexy, rugged individual who's haunted by his traumatic childhood and is just trying to get by!—_and he was actually kind of insulted by it, but kept his trap shut.

When he got away he made his cup of coffee, added some milk and as he stood up from the fridge he nearly bumped into Mr. Lobby Guy, who shot him a wide smile when he muttered a soft apology. He zoomed past Dean and out of the room, and Dean sighed as he grabbed a stirrer.

There was no fucking sugar again.

Dean's mouth fell open.

"_Sonuvabitch!_"

* * *

For over a week Dean was subjected to hell in its various forms. It came to him in a bunch of analysis reports that had to be completed, a broken screen in his window in his bedroom that banged against the glass and left him stressed and sweating in a ball under his covers, the fact that the Impala's check enginelight came on and the fact that he was subjected to _the most miserable coffee known to mankind. _The refrigerator on his floor had broken so until the technicians came to repair it he was stuck without milk.

Due to Mr. Whatever Guy taking up at _least _twelve packets of sugar every morning Dean had been drinking his coffee black for the past week.

Black. Dean didn't _do _untouched coffee. It made him gag. He would have stopped somewhere before work and gotten it but due to the ridiculous window he was sleeping terribly and arriving at work twitchy and disheveled. He was nearly late constantly, squeezing in the front doors with just a few minutes remaining each time.

"Who _is _that guy?" he asked Becky one morning, staring at Mr. Sidewalk-Across-the-Street guy's back as he sauntered off down the hallway. Great ass, but terrible acquisition of sweetness habits. No deal. He had noticed Dean glaring hotly at him this morning ever since they had fallen into step on the walk in and had winked—winked!—at him as Dean had tried, and failed, to race him to the sugar as his boss Zachariah had waylaid him.

Becky gave him the most judging look Dean had ever been subjected to.

"That's Mr. Novak," she said flatly.

"Wait. Novak? Michael, Gabriel, or Raphael?"

"Gabriel," Becky said, rolling her eyes. Novak corp. had three CEOs, brothers who had started the company. There had once been a fourth, but he had defected or something.

"Really?" Dean asked, wincing, because _seriously? _

"Uh, _yeah_. Haven't you noticed how no one bothers him when he comes in here?"

"He's taking all the sugar," Dean whined.

"That's why everyone's been bringing some from home."

The mental image of everyone at Novak corp. walking around with bags of sugar in their pockets like they were smuggling crack was amusing but Dean didn't laugh at it.

After that Dean became resigned to shitty coffee. Gabriel swung in as usual and Dean entered always just in time to see him disappear, fistful of sugar packets in hand. The fridge was fixed so he at least had milk to add, but he was far from a happy camper. He ran into Gabriel around the place a few times and it wasn't any good—he glared and glared and Gabriel would laugh in his face and ask him if he was laying down on any floors recently, prompting Dean to glare harder and consider rearranging the man's face with his fist.

Punching your super-rich CEO, though? Not such a great idea.

One morning, however, when the Impala was in for inspection at Bobby's, he took public transportation—always a fucking nightmare with PTSD and anxiety problems like his—in to work. It was hot and cramped and there were always suspicious people around that could have knives or guns or broken bottles or shitty report cards discovered in the bottom of a motel trashcan or worse hidden under their jackets.

He entered the Novak building with a scowl on his face and his eyes dark. A car had backfired out in the street and Dean had yelled, flinching violently and drawing the stares of all the other morning work-goers. He was sweating already and the back of his neck was prickling with embarrassment and barely-veiled anger.

When this happened Chuck had told him that he had to do something—something, but he didn't remember what, and didn't especially care right now.

He reached the staffroom, intent on getting his fucking sugar and milk if it _killed _him. He did not have the patience for this shit.

Gabriel Novak was already in the room, unsurprisingly. Dean was probably making a racket as he loudly got his mug Sammy had bought him for his birthday out of the cabinet and got everything ready but he didn't really care. Becky was trying to catch his eye from across the room but he didn't look anywhere near her direction.

He turned for the sugar, saw it was all gone, and bellowed, "HEY! NOVAK!" as Gabriel slipped out the door.

Gabriel froze, actually _froze_, one foot still in the air mid-step. The room went instantly quiet, all eyes on him.

"You take all the sugar _every day_," Dean said tightly, dangerously.

Novak popped his head back in the room and looked at Dean with something like disbelief. He then flapped his hand, gesturing Dean towards him. Dean calmly placed his mug in the sink, making a big show of pouring out the gross coffee. He rinsed it out, placed it upside-down in the rack and stomped out of the room, too angry to realize he was in effect throwing a tantrum in front of one of the company's CEOs.

He was totally fucked, but he wasn't gonna dwell on that, not until he got a damn packet of sugar just for pride's sake.

He followed Gabriel about forty feet down a hallway and then down another to the left, less-used.

"Dean Winchester, right?" he asked.

Dean stiffened, eyes narrowing. "Yeah," he answered, "How'd—"

"Please!" Gabriel scoffed. "I manage HR and the people here—it's my job to know literally everybody."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh." Gabriel laughed, but it wasn't unkind. "Sooo," he said, hands on his hips and something like glee on his face, "What's your prob?"

"You're hogging the sugar," Dean said, and it sounded a lot lamer than it had a minute ago with his anger leaking out of him like air from a balloon with a needlepoint sized hole.

Gabriel's eyes lit up like he was suppressing more laughter.

"So what you're saying is that you want some sugar?"

"Uh. Yeah." Dean swallowed, because something wasn't right, and Gabriel was edging closer.

"You want…me to give you some _sugar_?"

"Yes," Dean snapped, and only then did he realize Gabriel's game. He looked down, confused, as his tie was gripped and tugged on, drawing him down and to a smirking, clever mouth.

He left the floor's bathroom forty-five minutes later with his neck littered in hickeys and the best kind of limp, but you know what? He had exactly eight sugar packets stuffed in his pockets and he seemed to have figured out an excellent alternative therapy for his anxiety, so it could have been worse.


End file.
